Gamma Company
by Wesker888
Summary: The untold story of the War for Earth and the Ark told through a team leader of Gamma Company. I don't own anything you recognize.
1. The Bunker

Thirty yards

_Thirty yards. Easy peasy._

Looking through the scope on Roscoe's sniper rifle was a hell of a lot better than through the LT's binoculars. Binoculars are bulgy, hanging off your neck like that, easy to break. Not the sniper scope. Not only can you see your target, but you get the satisfaction of watching a Grunt's head lose all of its bran matter inside ten seconds.

I handed him back his sniper rifle, still glaring towards where I knew the Covenant Elite was standing with its carbine. It was standing alone, which was a rarity for the Elites, who preferred to stay together or with a squad of Grunts. It must be a sentry. My first thought was to order it taken out, but I figured it was best if we waited for Gunny Hawkins or one of the other sergeants to show up. Hell, it'd be great if _everyone_ came.

So far, it was just me and Roscoe. The rest of 2nd Platoon hadn't shown up yet; probably the LT's fault. He's new, so planning a LZ isn't exactly too easy for him. I guess I can't blame him entirely- this _was_, after all, the first time we were launched out in escape pods and not haloed in on a Pelican. It was easy to blame a lot of things: the JOC staff that planned the op, the satellite crew who picked out the LZ, even that pain-in-the-ass pilot who dropped us in through all the AA flak.

It's just easier to blame the officers.

Especially the _new_ officers.

Rustling off to the left. I turned and aimed my M-6 magnum just as two figures popped up through the bushes. I let out a quick sigh of relief; it was only Edwards and Yacoby, two other Marines on our five-man Fire Team. At least me and Roscoe weren't the only ones anymore.

"There you two are," Yacoby turned to Edwards. "Go back and tell the LT they've already got eyes on the target." He nodded and disappeared through the brush while she dug in with us.

"Everyone else back there?" Roscoe asked.

"Most of us," she answered.

Two of ours hadn't made it; either killed on impact, or some Elites came upon them and slaughtered them before they could make it out of the pods. One was one of the replacements, and the other was a guy who had gone as far back as Harvest. Neither was the Gunny, though, so I breathed easier at that.

Before long, the rest of the platoon showed up. Well, the twenty-eight of us left, anyway. The LT, this really skinny guy named Fisher, came up to us and asked us the enemy strength, but aside from the lone Elite that was standing guard, we really didn't have that much to tell him.

This isn't too bad a thing. Especially for the veterans of the group- like me- who need a combat break.

--

For reference, before I go any further, we're on Earth. East Africa. Not too far from where New Mombassa is. Or where it _used_ to be, thanks to one of the Covenant Prophets wiping it out when it deserted the battlefield. One of our ships, _In Amber Clad, _went after it while the rest of us were left to deal with the swarm of Covenant soldiers left below. And there sure are a lot of them.

For some reason, every alien scum out there, from the lowliest Grunt to the highest-ranking Elite, decided to come here, to this continent, instead of all the others. This actually makes our job easier, because it means we don't have to go all over the world trying to rout them out. At the same time, however, it makes life difficult because there are a few hundred thousand Covenant soldiers on Earth, and all of them are ready and gearing for a massive battle.

Our group right here is 2nd Platoon, Gamma Company, 3rd Battalion, 77th Marine Division, U.N.S.C. Out of the original three hundred and thirty men that founded the company, about forty of them- thirty-nine now, because of the guy from Harvest we just lost- are still left, and we've all been wounded at least once. Gunny Hawkins, our platoon sergeant, has been shot on about eight different occasions, almost had a limb amputated at least twice, and had needler rounds surgically removed from his brain, and he's _still_ here fighting with us. Talk about your tough cookie. The rest of us have had everything from a needler in the arm to plasma almost taking off a leg. But we don't complain.

Much.

The only reason why we prefer an MA5C to a hospital bed is for the same reason everyone does: we wanna kill Covenant. They wage some sort of "holy war" on us without any warning, and expect us to just take it? Forget that. We owe it to our planet to smoke every last one of them.

And we _are_ going to.

--

Now, with that said, time to continue the story.

After we told the LT what we had seen, he ordered Roscoe to get to a better alcove where he could get an eyes-on on any other Covenant targets in the area. We, meanwhile, would proceed down into the valley as planned.

The job for today was to clear out an old bunker used for coordinating Covenant air strikes. They had a whole relay team and everything in there, and it's because of it that Seraphs have been kicking our asses for the last four days. Intel suggested that it was mainly Grunt and Elite forces, possibly with a few Jackals for sniper cover, but not much else. Should be easy for a platoon of twenty-eight to wipe them out.

That was the idea, anyway.

In no time, Gunny Hawkins split us up into our teams. 1st Squad was hitting the left flank, 2nd Squad going around the right, while 3rd- including my Fire Team- would advance down the middle. Roscoe would remain wherever he was to provide the sniper cover. Once in the facility, we destroy whatever comms device they had and then hold the position long enough for reinforcements to arrive. The bunker was crucial for our operations as well as theirs, so we weren't allowed to be evaced afterwards. We had to hold it.

Edwards, Yacoby, McAllen and I got into our group as the LT joined up with 1st Squad. He seemed really nervous, which I guess is normal; this is only his second skirmish, I think, maybe his third. Definitely not as much as the Gunny, who's been kicking Covenant ass on more worlds than I can count. I myself have been on three or four, and have been wounded twice. But the LT's just transferred in from basic, so combat hasn't really grasped him like it has most of the rest of us.

The sound of a rifle cracking hit my ears like only the sound of a SRS-99D sniper rifle could. Roscoe must've shot that Elite we saw earlier. I could just picture that thing's helmet guard going flying, the rock behind it getting sprayed blue by its blood and brain matter. When I had first joined up with the company and saw a dead one, it scared the hell out of me, and I had trouble sleeping for weeks after I had seen it. Now I see an Elite get its head blown off and I smile like the others.

But then I wiped it off and led my fire team down into the valley. There had been some heavily armored battles in this area a week ago, and there were still blown up Scorpions and Wraiths here and there that would work for perfect cover. Maybe we'd be lucky and one of the 90mm's would be working. It was just wishful thinking on my part, but wishful thinking has saved us before, so one never knows.

Suddenly, McAllen broke left, flipping the safety off his M-7 submachine gun and crouching behind one of the Wraiths. Yacoby went to join him, cocking her M-90 CAW shotgun. Edwards and I took cover behind a Scorpion, our own weapons ready. I peeked out, trying to see what they had seen.

First thing I saw was that dead Elite's body. Its face was looking our way, its eyes wide and its four jaws wide open, never knowing what had hit it. And then I saw the two other Elites standing over it, with the eight or nine Grunts standing with them and the three Jackals that were providing sniper cover. Not too far from them I saw two other Grunts sitting in their Ghosts, waiting for the word for if they could attack or not.

Going by what Intel had told us, this was probably the extent of the Covenant forces in this area. Going by what Intel told us, however, I had the feeling there were more. Intel was never one hundred percent right, not even sometimes.

Edwards raised his own weapon- a BR55HB-SR Battle Rifle- and looked down the scope at one of the Elites. From the distance, the three-round burst would at least drop its shield, if not kill it entirely with a headshot. I in turn raised my MA5C; as team leader, I would be taking the first shot.

One of the Grunts began walking towards us, possibly trying to find a better view towards where Roscoe was. Its beady little eyes scanned over the hillside, over towards the Scorpion tank- and then right on me, with my gun trained right at it. The eyes widened.

I fired a burst before it could let out a yell. My bullets slammed into his chest, five of them, pelting him. Splashes of blue blood came out from everywhere the bullets hit. The little guy made a high grunting noise and then a yell and then fell backwards and did not move again.

One of the Elites whipped its head up just as its minion fell. Just as he pulled out his plasma rifle, Edwards pulled the trigger on his Battle Rifle. One three-round burst weakened his shield; the second burst destroyed the shield entirely. He aimed upward and pulled off one final burst to the head, which sent its helmet guard flying. The Elite slumped backwards, joining its comrade with the same stupefied look on its face.

After that, the real shooting started. The remaining Elite, Jackals and Grunts began taking cover, picking up their plasma rifles and needlers, and firing back at us. My men fired back, and though outnumbered, we were doing a better job of hitting them than they were at hitting us.

McAllen fired off half a clip into two Grunts, shredding both of them up. One of them had been right in the process of throwing a plasma grenade as the bullets hit him, and when he fell, it dropped from his hand and rolled over to the tank. McAllen, whose gun had decided to jam right as he was about to shoot the other Elite, saw the grenade and swore loudly.

"Grenade!" he shouted, ducking back behind the tank.

I ducked back too, because when a plasma grenade goes off, you really don't want to be anywhere near it. It sends off a plasma charge that can melt right through your armor and melt into your chest and through your bones. Real nasty stuff. And worst of all, if a grenade hits you, it sticks. And when that happens, you don't have a chance. All you can do is warn everyone else to get the hell away from you.

Well, the grenade went off, but the only real casualty was a Jackal who had been trying to flank around the tank to shoot at my men. The plasma stuck to its stomach, burning its way through. The Jackal let out a low squeal; McAllen, at this point, had un-jammed his M-7, and blew off the rest of the clip into its beady little head.

By this time, those two Grunts sticking by the Ghosts had gotten their vehicles running and were hitting us with strafing fire. We all ducked back behind the armor for cover as the twin plasma cannons singed through the already-burned out tanks. Ghosts are normally not as much of an inconvenience as they seem, but when they have you pinned down behind cover with nothing to shoot them down with, they can get real annoying real fast. The most you can do, however, is try to stay down as long as you can to think of a better solution to get rid of them.

And this time, I had one. One of the dead Grunts had landed not too far from us. Still in the kill zone for the Covenant, but not as bad if you stayed low and kept your head down. And there was a plasma grenade on its belt, ready for the taking. If I could stick it on one of the Ghosts, it would sure make out lives a hell of a lot easier.

I crawled on my belly towards the Grunt and its grenade while Edwards loaded another clip into his Battle Rifle. Bullets and needler shards flew over my head but I stayed low, thanks to the many months of hard training they put me through, and managed to pry the grenade off of the dead alien's cold limp body. The smell of it was already repulsive; I was glad to get away from it as I crawled back to my lines.

I waited for the right moment for one of the Ghosts to drive by. A second earlier or later would do damage to the surrounding troops, but probably do nothing on the Ghost. I prepped the grenade, my thumb on the button to activate it, waiting patiently for the vehicle to drive by. _Come on, you dumb bastard…come on…_

And sure enough, the dumb Grunt turned its ship around for another pass. Right as it did, I stood up, thumbed down on the button, and threw it as hard as I could at the Ghost. It stuck right to its hull, right on its front engine. I ducked back down behind the tank.

Whether or not the Grunt saw it, I didn't know, but it still drove back towards its line just in time for the grenade to detonate. The little bastard was sent flying from its seat, smashed its head into a rock and then fell to the ground. The Ghost stopped dead in the air and just crunched to the floor, its engine completely blown out, its hull peeled open like a banana.

The second Ghost had pulled around and was high-speeding for its next run when there was another loud cracking sound like before. Roscoe has taken the shot just at the right moment, and the bullet had gone right through its head and out. It slumped back in its chair and the Ghost, now driverless, flew right into the rock wall and exploded into it.

The other two Jackals moved into position to try and counter-snipe Roscoe. One of them, however, walked right into Yacoby's shotgun. Before it even realized where it was, she pulled the trigger, and its head and most of its neck went flying off while its body fell forward, purple-colored blood shooting out in spurts from its neck. She ejected the shell out of her weapon.

The sole surviving Jackal, realizing it was all alone, started to retreat back to safer lines. Unfortunately for it, it went right into Roscoe's line of fire, and the very person it was trying to snipe plugged it quickly with a bullet to its head. The Jackal was thrown forward and slid several feet on the ground until coming to a complete halt.

Now, only the final Elite was left. Its plasma rifle was out of charge, and all it had left was its energy sword. We all stood out from our cover, our weapons trained on it as it stood tall and proud. I knew there was no point in asking the overgrown lizard to surrender. Elites are too proud and too stubborn for that. They fight to the death.

Luckily enough, so do my boys.

The Elite was eyeing me. I was eyeing the Elite. Even if I missed, and even if the others missed, I knew Roscoe wouldn't miss. My only concern was it running me through with its blade before he could take the shot. But if that happened, there wasn't much I could do about it. There was no point in worrying about it.

The Elite snarled. I checked the ammo counter. Full clip; I had just reloaded as Roscoe had taken that shot on the Jackal. The rest of my team were fully loaded too. I'm pretty sure there were fully loaded needlers and plasma rifles on the ground that it could've used, but this thing wouldn't even look at them. It preferred melee fight to the death. Unfortunately for it, we weren't like that.

It finally charged, sword whipped back and ready for the swing. It hadn't even taken three steps when we all opened up with everything we had on it, semi-automatic, automatic, and shotgun fire. Roscoe probably fired off a shot too, but I wasn't paying too much attention. I must've emptied my entire clip into it, and I'm pretty sure the others did the same. Bullets all by vaporized its shielding, and when that was down, it didn't stand a chance. It got riddled all over, chest, arms, legs, neck. A shotgun round tore off the two mandibles on the left side of its face. How it still stood, I don't know, but it still managed to make its way up to me and even take a swing towards Edwards before it finally collapsed and lay still.

Everything was quiet in our sector now. We all lowered our weapons and caught our breath. I cracked my neck. Not so bad an assignment today. I just wondered how the rest of our platoon was doing.

An explosion over towards that bunker answered that question. Machine-gun fire and grenade detonations were picking up over that away. We had been so caught up in our own little fire-fight that we had not been paying attention to how the rest of the platoon had been doing, but now we were listening to it in full-swing. I guess the flanking movements by 1st and 2nd Squads didn't go unnoticed. The rest of 3rd Squad was still behind us, and we started moving out with them towards the others. It sounded like they could really use an extra hand.

And they looked like they were. When we got there, there was plasma fire from two mounted turrets, one on the roof of the bunker, one from its window. Ten of our guys- mostly replacements- were either dead or wounded. 2nd Platoon medic, Doc Hutchinson, was at the moment treating one of our older guys who had taken a needler right to the gut; one of the really bad wounds but not fatal if treated properly. Doc was someone you could rely on, so we kept going and knew he could handle everything.

LT Fisher and Gunny Hawkins were behind a rock with the LT's radioman, a big beefy guy named Hatcher. He was trying to raise the Hornets on the net while LT and Gunny were conferring with the next course of action. Gunny was all for a flanking movement, while the LT argued that they should just go full frontal. Which was, of course, suicide; our guys were getting torn up just by being behind cover. A frontal attack would be a disaster.

The plasma turrets were shredding us. A botch landed on one soldier, sending plasma into his side and melting his skin and bones. He screamed for a full minute, emptying his MA5C clip and even managing to pull the pin on a frag grenade and throw it- to no avail- before collapsing to the ground.

I ran forward, firing from my Assault Rifle at the bunker in the hopes that it would slow the firing down. I might as well have thrown a paperweight at it; it probably would've had the same effect. I got down and ejected my empty clip. I only had two clips left- about sixty-four rounds. I would have to make them last. The other guys weren't much better off; we haven't had a decent re-supply in weeks. The scumbags were probably better off in that bunker, which only further complicated matters.

Any other day, this would be considered to be an impossible mission.

This day, however, I was too tired and hungry to care.

Edwards slammed against the metal hull of a Wraith and bellowed to me to join him, which I did. From where we were, we could see a few Grunts behind the bunker loading some more turrets onto the back of what looked like an old U.N.S.C. transport truck. How they were going to drive it, neither of us knew. Where they were going to take them was something we didn't know either, but it didn't bother us too much, because Edwards just stood up and picked them off one by one with his Battle Rifle. They were all dead within seconds.

Gunny Hawkins' rough voice called out over the incoming fire. Hatcher had managed to get a couple of Hornets over the net, and they would be coming in hot. Any soldier near the bunker had better get as far as they could, or the Grunts were not going to be the only ones going to Hell today.

Edwards and I jumped up as quickly as we could, and as we did, a beam of plasma energy whizzed past my ear and hit the ground a few feet away from us. Instinctively, I hit the ground and scurried back behind the cover of the burnt-out enemy tank. Edwards, who at this point had covered some distance from our cover, hit the ground and pressed himself into it as hard as he could, trying to make himself a smaller target. There was plenty of debris around, but where he was, there were few things big enough for him to hide behind and be safe.

I stuck my head out a crack. The shot had come from a carbine, and I was looking for the Elite that was shooting at us. It hadn't been a Jackal, otherwise, my head would have been blown off; Jackals don't miss. It hadn't been a Grunt either, for I had rarely seen the little bugs pick up a weapon larger than a plasma rifle, and certainly nothing bigger than themselves. That just left it to be an Elite. Trouble was, it was behind cover, somewhere where I couldn't see it.

Machine-gun fire came from the rear. I turned around and saw with satisfaction that Humley and Bennington, our machine-gunner and his assistant, had set up the platoon's heavy machine gun, an AIE-486H. Most units didn't carry one of these, for it was mainly used on vehicles and as stationary turrets, but the two men had secured it from one of the many military bases we lost last year and so felt they had the right to keep it. It was a hell of a thing to have; very heavy, slow rate of fire at first but increased within seconds, with a 200-round belt of ammunition that could be dried up in a few seconds but every one of them 7.62x51mm of pure stopping power. Humley had managed to get in an order for the ammo and we have been using the gun ever since.

Right now, Humley had set the gun up on the tripod that Bennington had laid down for it and was firing a steady burst at the bunker. Another plasma beam from the carbine fired at them, missed them by a few inches, and this time I could see the Elite's head poking out of the roof of the bunker, carbine in its hands.

I grabbed my last grenade, pulled the pin and flung it over onto the roof. I don't think it ever saw it, because a few seconds later, the grenade blew and the Elite went flying head over feet over our heads and down the valley. It gave most of the guys a much-needed laugh to see it fly like that.

All that happened in the seconds after Gunny Hawkins had told us the Hornets were on their way, and now, I could hear the high-powered engines of the aircraft over the shooting. With me still being behind that tank, I immediately bolted out of my cover, stopped for a moment to pick Edwards up off the ground, and the two of us ran back to where the LT and the Gunny were hiding out and took cover with them.

Before long, those ugly-as-sin birds flew overhead and began firing both machine-guns and rockets into the bunker. Just one or two of those heat-seeking mothers was enough to clear out the place, and as we watched, Grunts went flying left and right through the air, screaming for whatever God they thought could save them. From the rear, a power core must've been hit, because the whole place just suddenly erupted in fire. So much for keeping the place in one piece, though it definitely destroyed the Covenant equipment.

Those Hornets went on forever, and all the while what was left of our platoon was hollering for them to keep it up. Just keep firing, keep going, and don't stop until every one of those bastards is deader than Hell. That was usually how it was; whenever our side gave a beating, we would always cheer it on. Just like a football match, only way more violent.

When the shooting stopped, we picked our heads up. The bunker looked a mess, as it rightly should have, but at least the shooting from there has stopped. Hatcher thanked the Hornets over the radio, and the aircraft flew off to help the other units along our very thin and much depleted line across the continent.

I ordered my team up and over. We were going to be the first ones in. The rest of 3rd Squad-the only intact squad in the platoon- would follow behind us, while the remainders of 1st and 2nd Squads fell in behind them. Doc would see to the wounded as best he could down below, while Hatcher would radio in to Command to let them know the mission was accomplished.

McAllen and Edwards stopped at the entrance, their weapons pointing in. Yacoby and I went in, our weapons sweeping looking for any possible survivors. Yacoby fired a shotgun shell into the head of a snarling Elite who had had its legs blown off by one of the rockets. My eyes fell on a Grunt, its leg badly bleeding from four different places, its gas tank ruptured by bullets and shrapnel. It was breathing heavily, and when it looked up at me, its beady little eyes were wet with tears.

I pulled out my M-6, aimed carefully, and fired. The bullet pierced its head, going right through to the other side. I saw steam fly out the whole, along with the blood and brain matter, and as I watched, its eyes rolled into the back of its head and it fell onto its back, completely and totally lifeless.

I had felt bad for the thing, for a fraction of a second. However, it had passed me by the instant I felt it. Pity would not get these wretched creatures off our planet and back where they came from. This thing's holy mission was now over. Mine would not be until every last one of them was dead and buried; however long that turned out to be.

With that one shot, we were done. The bunker was officially secured and in U.N.S.C hands by 0335 hours- about an hour before we were supposed to have. Thirty men from Gamma Company had wiped out a platoon of Elites and Grunts with Jackal escorts, along with any chances of their kin coming to aid them.

Five of our men had been killed in the attack; two before they had even gotten out of their pods. Another seven had been wounded, though three of them-the man with the needler wound- would be fit to return to the outfit by the end of the week. Now, with the bunker secure and communications established, we could be allowed to rest for a while and allow the rest of Gamma Company to arrive, probably in an hour or so. With no orders to follow and nowhere specific to be, my men and I went off to find something to eat and maybe a comfortable spot where we could make our mats for the night.


	2. Resupply

Hello, everyone, and welcome to the story of Gamma Company.

My name is Wesker888 and I shall be your story-writer from here on in.

Not that I wasn't during the first chapter, but you get the idea.

I beat Halo 3 in a day, and the idea of doing a story from a soldier's point of view, as what often happens to my tiny little mind, formed after doing so.

Last chapter introduced primary characters, now we'll get to know who they really are.

Enjoy.

* * *

My name is Will Gibson.

Technical Corporal Gibson to my superiors.

"Gibs" to the other enlisted men.

From here on in, I tell the story as I saw it happen. Maybe it will tie in with official report, and maybe it won't. I honestly don't give a damn. It doesn't really matter, in the long run.

There are many accounts of what happened those last few weeks of the Human-Covenant War, and all of them have their own version of how it happened. This is the true story as I saw it, and though it may not be the official true story, it is still MY true story. It's the true story of me and my company, of the guys I fought and bled with, and of the guys who never made it back home.

If you won't believe that, then you can put this account down now and walk away.

I was twenty-eight in 2552, the last year of the war. Exactly six feet tall, weighing only one hundred thirty-five pounds if that, I had dark hair that was almost over my brown-green eyes and a long nose. I had scruffy facial hair all over my chin and cheeks and around my mouth, and I had never known what a razor was. I had tall skinny legs, which made me the fastest runner in all of Gamma Company, and I was Irish, which meant I had very pale skin. I'm sixty-seven now, but even without a picture I can recall every detail of my persona.

The war was terrible, but it was necessary, and everything we did, we did in order to survive. It did not work for all of us, but it worked for me. In the end, I survived. I was one of the ones lucky enough to go home.

That's all I need to know.

But what _you_ need to know is all written here. The accounts of the last month of fighting before the galaxy finally knew peace. The early fights with the Grunts, the Banshee attacks, the change from Elites to the nastier, more barbaric Brutes, and the sparring match between me and the Hunter. Every major detail leading up to that final Covenant battle, the horrible flight from the Flood, and the complete annihilation of the last of the destructive Halo rings, in which we were finally able to go home for good.

So here it is, from start to finish.

------------

The sky was a clear blue the day after we took the communications bunker. There was not a cloud in the sky, at least, not one that I could recall. The sun was bright yellow and made it feel like hot sticky August instead of cool end-of-October, though I never complained even once about it because it was a major improvement from the two weeks of rain we had had before that.

The rest of Gamma Company had been haloed in on the Pelicans and had now joined what was left of our 2nd Platoon. There were now some three hundred men up at this bunker, which gave us better odds in defending it from enemy counterattacks. All over the field, you could see trenches made by the troops, the tents set up to try to get a good night's sleep, and the occasional foxhole for the gunners and the scouts and for anyone who did not have a tent. It was a good sight, for anyone who was beginning to lose hope, to see three hundred men nicely assembled. Though they could not stand up against an entire division of Covenant Elites, they were certainly willing to try.

The bunker had been cleared out by now. The Covenant equipment, or what was left of it, had been removed, and U.N.S.C radio equipment was put in its place. The bodies of the Grunts and Elites had been removed and burned earlier that day; the smoke could still be seen just beyond the hill. There was much activity, mainly between command and the radio operators, trying to get the rest of the war under-way.

I was sitting at the edge of the bunker, quietly cleaning my MA5C and thinking about home, along with my squad mates and friends Ryan Edwards and Ana Yacoby. The two were talking on amiably about this thing and that, while I just sat and listened to them talk.

The three of us were old-school soldiers, some of the first to form G Company. We'd been together for a good eight years by this point, and as such we knew just about everything about one another. Soldiers in combat are very close with one another, as a principle, and we were no exception. As team leader, I had to distance myself in order to keep respect, but I was undeniably very close to my men.

Edwards was twenty-seven, about a foot or two shorter than me, and had the lightest brown hair I have ever seen for a male. He was well-tanned in contrast to my paler tone, and was very outspoken, always having an opinion for just about everything. He weighed in at about one forty, one fifty pounds, had a five-o'clock shadow all across his face, and brown eyes that seemed to stare into an endless existence. He was very fit, having been on a football team or in a wrestling match for the better part of his life. He was my right-hand man, though; one could always trust him to be at their back or side.

"Did you hear that the tankers had to pull back?" he was telling us now while he was wiping over the scope of his Battle Rifle.

I frowned. "What?"

"Yeah, they ran into superior numbers. Shadows, with Banshee overhead support. They didn't have a choice; they were down to five Scorpions and three Rhinos when they pulled out," our friend told us, sounding grim.

"So if they're pulling back, then what the hell are we doing here?" demanded Yacoby.

She threw back her shoulder-length black hair in a dismissive manner. Yacoby always seemed impatient, wherever she was. Take it from someone who knew her her entire life, she was someone you did not want to cross openly, and even if you WERE somehow capable of escaping her wrath, you would still be nursing those wounds to your deathbed. At twenty-eight years of age, five foot six, one hundred and six pounds, she was also pale, with bright green eyes and a face not heavily made-up but with some traces of it. She was an expert on hand-to-hand, tae kwon doe, karate, all that stuff.

"We have better cover," I reminded her. "Roofs over our heads to protect us. Walls on either side that can take more than one hit from a plasma charge. We've still got a few SPNKr missiles left, and we can lay down some mines to delay if not completely stop the tanks. We'll be fine."

All that had been effectively pulled out of my ass for the very sake of boosting morale. What we had were a bunch of spitballs, and we all knew it. Mines could maybe take out a tread or two, but only if we were lucky and they decided to work. As for the SPNKr's, we had only three or four left, and they could at most make a dent in a Shade's armor, but not much more than that. On Banshees, they were useless, unless you had a lock-on feature on your launcher; something few launchers had. And yeah, the roof and walls could take a hit or two, but they would not hold out long, and once they gave way, a single plasma bolt could wipe out an entire squad; maybe even half a platoon.

We all knew it. It was just one of the risks of the job. That did not mean, however, that we would allow it to put ourselves in constant fear. We would do our jobs, just like we always did.

"So long as they bring a good fight," Edwards said, slamming his clip into the stock of his rifle and throwing a grin at Yacoby, who returned it mischievously.

I went back to my cleaning, ignoring the looks they were sure to be giving each other. Those two always did like to flirt with each other. More than flirt, actually, though just how far no one cared to know. Not that it was allowed in the U.N.S.C, but none of us particularly minded if they were to start something.

Edwards had always been something of a flirt. It was just in his nature. He could see the cutest girl for miles away, and before you knew it, he'd be over to her with an extra drink in his hands and his "Millionaire's Smile" on his face. But with Yacoby, it went further than that. It was almost borderline-love, if one were to look at it properly. He threw out the usual book and was as polite as he could be around her, which really made heads spin. It made him a better person to be around, though, so no one complained.

Yacoby, as I stated above, was a woman I had known my entire twenty-eight years of existence. We had been born and raised right here on Earth, in a little town in Iowa. We went to the same middle and high school, and then joined up right after that. I had never looked at her in a romantic light- just never saw her in that way- but I still liked to play the older brother role from time to time, much to her annoyance.

I didn't have to use that role too much to Edwards, though occasionally I would throw him a look that would put him on a fifty-foot restraining order without a court's approval. Just for kicks, really. But those two were two of the best damn soldiers one could have on your team, and so trust for each other just became thrown into the mix. I knew I could trust them together.

I had finished cleaning my weapon and had slapped the cartridge into the stock just as Jerry Roscoe hopped into the bunker, his large sniper rifle cradled in his hands. He was the smallest of the group, at about five foot three, I think, and he was the youngest too, was barely even twenty. He had wiry brown eyes that could see in the dark without night vision, wild brown hair that stuck out all over the place when his helmet was not on, and he had a lopsided grin that showed some of his crooked teeth. A skilled sharpshooter who had never missed a shot, Roscoe was the only member of our five-man team who had not been with us since basic, having come on our second campaign as a replacement for our original sniper who had been killed. Nevertheless, he was cheerful and talkative, and he fit right in to our group, almost as if he had been there all along.

"Hey guys," he greeted us with his usual lopsided smile, sitting down and laying his rifle across his lap. "I got good news, and I got bad news. Which do you want to hear first?"

"Oh, give me the good, I guess," I replied with a sigh. The last piece of "good" news we had heard was that we would be staying at the bunker until further notice, and that was not exactly a picnic for us. It could not possibly get any more "good".

Or so I thought, anyway.

"Pelicans just came in," he told us, "including- get this- complete re-supply."

At this, all our heads picked up. A re-supply meant we were getting pulled out of Hell and heading towards...well, not Heaven, but a Purgatory of sorts. A complete re-supply, if what he said was true, was even better.

"Complete? As in, _everything_?" Edwards demanded.

"As in everything and a half," said Roscoe earnestly, happier than he had been in a while. "Weapons, ammunition, grenades, explosives, medical stuff, ammo for the machine-gun and for the rocket launchers. We've got food, we've got water, we've got fresh uniforms and helmets. You name it, it's come in."

"Do we get showers?" Yacoby, who had been complaining about hot showers for weeks, wanted to know.

"Hot water and everything," was the answer.

"Jesus, this is a complete _feast_!" exclaimed Yacoby, her mood lifted severely as Edwards let out a yelp of jubilation. The thought of being able to shower off months and months of filth and dirt, of being able to put on fresh, clean uniforms, of being able to replace old beat-up weapons with new ones, was a luxury that only came to front line soldiers.

"Where's this stuff at?" I inquired.

At this, Roscoe's smile faded a bit. He clucked his tongue.

"Yeah, see...that's the BAD news..."

At that point, we did not near to hear another word, because we all knew what he meant by that. Our euphoria instantly faded as Edwards and Yacoby just let out big groans and I just sighed, slung my rifle over my back, stood up, and walked out of the bunker, the others behind me, headed to where Roscoe said was the supply spot.

When we got there, we needed no words to know what was going on. There was a huge crate of weapons and ammo, large enough to touch the roof of the bunker, and wide enough to fill it up and even overflow. Around the front of the pile were thirty or forty of our company, from our 2nd Platoon or from the other two platoons, and from the loudness in their voices they did not sound happy. The ones in front of the group were shouting their lungs out as Anthony McAllen and two other troopers- I'm guessing the supply soldiers- were standing before the pile in a guarding stance, keeping the others back.

I pushed my way to the front of the crowd- not an easy task, by any means- and stood face to face with McAllen, glaring at him in an annoyed manner.

"Maybe I haven't been clear with you the last twenty times we've received supplies," I said to him in a stern voice, "but just because we get more stuff does NOT mean you horde it all like a pack rat and dish it out at a special price."

McAllen just smirked at me and snapped his fingers in that care-free way that always pissed me off. At thirty-one years of age, he stood at six foot three and weighed about one hundred ninety pounds. He was the assistant team leader, and a good man to have around, but his attitude a good ninety-three point five percent of the time was more than most of us could stand to handle. He had black hair, and when he was not wearing a helmet he wore a wool-knit cap to cover it up, and had beady blue eyes and a big nose. He acted like he was a damn comedian most of the time, and that got annoying fast, but in a fire fight, he was completely cool and level-headed, and performed his job effortlessly.

But when we were behind the lines and supplies came in, he would ALWAYS take to acting as store manager when it came to dishing them out. It was a pain in the ass, especially to those who did not want to blow their hard-earned combat pay on ammunition and uniforms- which was _everyone_. This was not the first time I had had to confront him on his less-than-honorable dealings; and it probably would not be the last.

"Hey boss, if I didn't do it, we'd have to trust it to these guys," he thumbed to the supply boys, "and they ALWAYS fuck things up."

"Yes, but it's THEIR job to fuck up, not yours."

"Look, Gibs, I need to keep some of this stuff. You know what I'm working on, right? That weapon system?"

"...The one you've been bragging about, but you won't show us?"

"The one that's going to knock the Covenant right out of orbit, just as soon as it's finished. And I need some of this equipment to help me out."

"_How_? How will our weapons and ammunition help out with the thousand pounds of power cores, wiring, generators...speaking of which, how do you GET all of this shit anyway? HQ doesn't even send me a bar of SOAP half the time, and somehow you get everything but the pantry counter?"

"I would've gotten the pantry counter, but the supply clerk told me that's where he takes his dates on Friday night, if you know what I mean."

"What secretarial whore did you have to fuck in order to get this kind of service?" Yacoby could not help but ask, shocked that a mere grunt would get such good service.

"Well, that's kinda classified," McAllen said, eying her up and down, "but I'd be happy to show you where-"

"Watch it," Edwards stepped forward, looking for a fight and might just getting it. Another thing about McAllen, the guy was a leech. Not like Edwards, who would flirt in a polite manner. McAllen, on the other hand, was shameless, and he was persistent. It never got far enough that we had to call the M. P.s down on him, but it got pretty damn near close.

Well, things were starting to get pretty violent, what with the growing mob and McAllen getting on Edwards' nerves. I was starting to get a little-okay, a LOT-concerned, especially when I saw Edwards fingering his trigger finger and I saw the crowds beginning to overpower the supply boys that were acting as a barricade between them and the supplies. I was just about to step in as senior noncom and attempt to quiet things when a louder voice barked, "That's enough!"

I looked at the top of the hill and instantly I smiled. Gunnery Sergeant Flynn Hawkins was sauntering his way over to save the day, shotgun in his hands. There was nothing more to be worried about. One sight of him, and the arguing group suddenly went still.

Gunny Hawkins, as I mentioned before, was our platoon sergeant, and the most fearless, battle-hardened man I've ever known. He had been in the army for just about forever, and it showed. Six foot two, weighing at two hundred and forty pounds, he was broad-shouldered and forbidding. He had blue eyes that were like shiny crystals, and an almost invisible scar over one of them from one of his many wounds. His jaw was firm, with an unlit cigar jammed perpetually into the corner of his mouth at all times like a typical gunny. He wore a army hat, with his rank no longer shining in the middle of it, having long since been dirtied and mucked up. His sleeves were rolled up to show very muscular arms, one with an anchor tattoo just above his elbow, and when he walked it was with a proud stride that the rest of us could only try to perfect.

What made Gunny more of a god to us was that even though we never knew about his former life, and he never learned about ours, and he rarely if ever sat down with any of us and just talked like normal people...he was always there for us. From the day our war started up until the day our war ended, no matter how maimed he had been, he was right by our sides, shooting his shotgun, flinging grenades, laying down mines, facing a Wraith with a SPNKr and one missile. He was legendary among our men. Looking back on it now, I realize that he and one other person were the main reason we survived the war.

More on the other person at a later time.

"Knock it off!" Gunny barked in his gruff voice as he reached us. "Stand down before you hurt yourselves, because I swear, if I see one goddam bruise on ANY of you, it'll be latrine duty for a month."

The men did just that. He was fearful enough just talking in a NORMAL tone, let alone when he was angry at us. Edwards parted ways to allow Gunny to McAllen, whose smile had faded almost entirely, and whose Adam's apple was going up and down at a rapid pace. The gunny stared him right in the eye, his nose mere inches from the other man's.

"Hogging the supplies _again_, McAllen?" he asked knowingly.

"No Gunny," he immediately said.

"Good," said Gunny, "because you know what would happen if you were, right?"

"I have a good idea, sir." And he probably did.

The sergeant smiled. He was probably the only man in the platoon McAllen listened to and obeyed; even I, as his team leader, only got that right during the firefights. Gunny gave him a jagged grin and then turned to me. I immediately straightened my back.

"Corporal Gibson, see to it that the supplies get distributed evenly amongst the men," he said to me. "_All_ of them, please."

"Right away, Gunny," I assured him.

It always made me proud that he trusted me to get things done. I had been in combat just as long as any of the men in G Company, but when it came down to getting stuff done, he entrusted me to do it. In the grand view of things, and especially now that I'm sixty-seven, it's not really that big a deal, but at that particular time and place, it was like being spoken to by someone you could only hope to be. It was a big deal for me back then.

Gunny Hawkins gave the rest of us a stiff nod and then left to make his way up the hill. There were no grumblings behind his back, unlike when most other superiors gave orders. It was rumored the sarge had super-sonic hearing, and that anything lower than a man's breath could be heard if he listened hard enough. I never learned if this were true or not, and he never told us otherwise. Either way, we never risked it.

Right away, I started with the orders. "Alright, guys, let's get this stuff unloaded! Roscoe, Yacoby, Edwards, open up these ammo boxes and sort them out. You boys from 1st and 2nd Squads, get the medical supplies over to Doc Hutchinson and the other medics. Somebody get that machine gun ammo over to Humley as soon as possible. McAllen, talk to these HQ boys and get the paperwork straightened out, will you?"

McAllen gave me a look that said I'd get a thousand deaths, but he knew better than to do anything about it. Try as hard as he did, he always got the worst part of the job when supplies came in, and that was the paperwork. That is why he got it, though; if it wasn't that, he'd be continuing on his dirty work. I gave him a cheesy grin and a wink as he stomped off to the HQ boys, grumbling as he went.

The supplies we got were truly all we had ever wanted. Assault rifle, Battle rifle, sub-machine gun, sniper, shotgun, and pistol ammunition was just at the tip of the iceberg. There were fragmentation grenades by the truckload, plenty to go around for the entire company. Machine-gun ammunition going to Paul Humley, our machine-gunner, was dressed up in about eight different cans; because it was rare for ammunition to come in, they sent enough to make it last. SPNKr rounds were carefully contained in huge crates, and another crate held all the demolition charges that we would no doubt be needing on an upcoming mission. Medical gear for our medic, Donald Hutchinson, and the other platoon and company medics was immediately shipped to them from the other soldiers. Various other odds and ends, such as food rations, knives, articles of clothing and hygienic items, were distributed evenly amongst the troops.

The biggest win for us, at least in many of our minds, was a new shipment of power cores for the radios. Our radioman, Terry Hatcher, had been complaining for weeks about how the cores in his radio were running low and that his radio was becoming less and less reliable. Indeed, many of our requests for air support in the last month or so have fallen on dead ears, hindered by static or other interceptions. With new cores, it would be a lot easier for him to keep in contact with the Air Corps, something we all felt deeply grateful for.

We had struck gold. Truly, in every sense. There was a smile on every battle-hardened veteran's face, which was a rare thing to find. The supplies would run out eventually, we all knew that, but that would not come for a long time. All was well in our little world; no Covenant attacks, no higher-up orders, not a shot fired all day, not so much as a Grunt attack. It was the best day ever.

That is, it was being so until-

"_Banshee_!"

I immediately looked up in time to see a single slick-flying Banshee fighter swooping down through the clear sky towards us. My heart plummeted about three feet down my chest cavity. As I said before, we had nothing on us to use against Banshees, aside from SPNKrs with no lock-on. Bullets would just bounce off off the sleek armor. Running and hiding were the two most-valued options.

"Take cover!" I screamed to our men. Most of them had already heard the warning and had seen the purple glider. They dropped what they were doing and rushed for the bunker or for the trenches, anywhere that they could find cover.

"NO! GET THAT GOD DAMN AMMO OUT OF THE OPEN!" I screamed to them.

We had been waiting for that ammunition for weeks, and I sure as hell was not letting it all get blown to smithereens in one fell swoop like that. Edwards and I rushed out and grabbed one of the machine-gun ammo crates and rushed back to the bunker. Behind us, we heard the Banshee open fire, heard the plasma blots hit the ground and sizzle on the ground, just inches behind us.

There was another fire run and then a loud BOOM! Something just got hit. We listened for the second explosion, but none came, which told us that whatever had been hit, it was not our ammo. By now other soldiers had rushed out and had begun to grab crates and drag them back to the ditch. Yacoby and Roscoe landed in the trench with two crates of shotgun shells. Yacoby loaded her gun.

"I'll shoot him right out of the sky," she stated, aiming the gun at the glider.

"No, goddam it!" I exclaimed, grabbing her barrel and forcing it down. "One shotgun isn't going to bring down a Banshee, you know that!"

"I could try to snipe the pilot," suggested Roscoe.

"Too narrow a target. It'd be a long shot for anyone to hit someone in that thing."

"Well then what are we going to do? Sit here until it gets tired and glides off?"

I looked around the compound. There were no cries for a medic, so no one was hurt. So far. But the supplies were still in danger. The Banshee had already hit something, and next time may hit something that we REALLY needed.

The sure way to take down a Banshee was with superior firepower. SPNKr missiles were one way, but there were others as well. The Spartans had developed some sort of laser-firing launcher, but the problem with that was one, it was Spartan only, and two, it was on a five-second delay, and against a Banshee every second mattered. Machine guns could also do the trick, but it usually took at least half a belt to take down, and I did not want Humley wasting all the ammo right out of the crate.

There was one other way, and in my opinion, it was the best way. The M-68 GAUSS cannon, usually perched on the back of a Warthog. Those things could take down anything, and though a Wraith could probably still get away clean after a couple of hits, they could take down a Banshee no problem.

Unfortunately, there was only Warthog that had one, and that was Lieutenant Nathan Fisher's, our platoon leader. Thankfully, I had no problem with using it; I never took him seriously enough for it.

So I ran out to where I knew the LT had parked his 'Hog and got in the driver's seat. I turned the key in the ignition and slammed pedal to the metal. Warthogs were usually a lot of fun to drive, and whenever I had one, I liked to ride it out as long as I could before I got down to business. Not this time; this time I had to move.

I parked the vehicle on a hill near the tree line, visible enough that if I missed, the Banshee would know where I was, and boy, would there be hell to pay. So far, I had not been spotted. I had climbed up into the gunners seat, spun the laser cannon towards the Banshee and aimed down the sights.

The purple glider was right in my sights when I fired the first beam. The laser clipped one of its wings, bending it upwards and disabling it. This would not stop it, but at least it would screw it up for a while, and that was all I needed. I fired another shot that just gently deflected off of the hull and left a large scar. At that point I think it realized where I was, but by that point it was finally too late. I fired off a third round, and this hit dead center, blowing the front engine. The glider, now flaming up, dove straight down and crashed mere feet away from where I was standing and stayed down.

Cheers went up from all of the men and women that were taking cover. I slid down to the bottom of the vehicle, catching my breath from the adrenaline rush. That had felt like hours, though it had only been mere moments; the fastest time we had ever taken down a Banshee glider. I had just broken some sort of record for anti-aircraft, I know I had, but for some reason I never got recognition for it.

Edwards, Yacoby, McAllen and I all gathered over at the crashed glider to inspect it. The front end was submerged in the dirt, shards of the hull littered and thrown yards around. The wings were both bent and twisted, the one I had hit to the point of falling completely off. The hatch was opened partially, the dead Elite visible inside. Half its head was missing from impact, and the body was torn up and shredded, either by one of the lasers or from the engine exploding or also from the impact. Maybe even all three. McAllen kicked the body.

"There's one less to worry about," he exclaimed.

"Kinda weird, isn't it?" pondered Yacoby, looking at me. "That they only sent one?"

That thought was in my mind as well. While it was not uncommon for an Elite to make an independent last stand against U.N.S.C forces, when it came to air warfare, the Covenant had a habit of showing off their assets. Even a simple gun run usually involved three or more Banshees. We had had the hell bombed out of us by Covenant air forces since their arrival to Africa, and we knew that a counterattack to re-take the bunker would involve at least a Banshee squadron, maybe even a couple of Phantoms landing in shock troops.

So why just this one Banshee? Where were the rest? Where was the counterattack we all knew was coming?

"He was probably out on patrol. You know, scouting the scene,"said McAllen.

"By himself? Even patrols pair up in two."

"Maybe he was acting rogue. You know how Elites get," Edwards suggested.

"Elites don't act rogue. They're warriors, they act on a code of honor." Yacoby shook her head. "Someone had to have put him on a suicide mission."

"All Elites _do_ are suicide missions," McAllen reminded her. "You're thinking too hard on this. Point is, the dumb thing attacked us, and we took it out. We should be celebrating."

"You may be right," I spoke up for the first time, "but I'm still not convinced that it was taking a spin and just happen to stumble upon us. This guy had intent; maybe it didn't know exactly what was out here, but it had a pretty good idea."

"So they sent a Banshee out to get us. What's the big deal?"

"_They don't send just ONE banshee on patrol_, McAllen! You know that!"

"Okay, I give up," Edwards threw his hands in the air. "What exactly are you trying to say? That its leaders set it up? That they hated this one Elite so much that they sent it out here on a suicide run?"

"Look at its armor," Yacoby indicated the broad Elite armor with her shotgun."It's gold-colored. This wasn't just some run-of-the-mill Elite, this guy was high on the chain. Probably a commander."

"Fine," McAllen reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit up. "So the commander came out here 'cause its leaders wanted it dead. Sure, we'll go with that. Can we please just go get something to eat?"

He had a point there; there was no point in worrying over a single dead Elite. Just one less Elite to have to worry about, just like he said. We did not know it at the time, but this was the beginning of a shift for which the scale of the war was about to be tipped drastically.

Roscoe walked up right then, still cradling his rifle like it was his baby.

"What got hit?" I asked him.

"If you tell me it was the showers, I swear to God-" Yacoby started.

"Don't worry, it wasn't the showers," said Roscoe.

"So what was it?" asked Edwards.

The sniper clucked his tongue and looked sheepishly at me.

"It was one of the water trucks that were supposed to provide the water for the showers-"

"_Oh, that son of a BITCH_!"

Yacoby ran back up to the dead Elite and began kicking it in the head. Edwards and McAllen tried to pry her out, but when she growled at them they instantly jumped back. I could not help but laugh at the spectacle. Yacoby had been complaining about those showers for so long and now that they were here there was no water to use them. Quite the unfortunate paradox. But that was our life, our very existence as soldiers; the biggest paradox being taking life in order to save it. That was just how it worked, and we had long since stopped trying to fight or reason with it.

------------

Almost forty years later and I still remember every detail from the last days of the war, leading up to the very end.

And now, by stepping into these pages, you will know them too.

* * *

Whew, I know this took a while, but here it is.

A couple comments I've gotten says this reminds them of Band of Brothers, and honestly...I don't see it. I swear, I don't. Maybe that's just me. Maybe I will later. Who knows.

But anyway, keep an eye out on my profile in the next week, cause I'm gonna be putting up some links to my Fanfiction Tutorial on Youtube. Give all you new Fanfiction writers a fresh start.

So, leave a review if you'd like, and I'll see y'all later.


	3. A New Assignment

And here's Chapter Three.

Enjoy!

* * *

Later that afternoon, I was ordered to report to the bunker, where LT Fisher and Gunny Hawkins were waiting for me. I took my helmet off and placed it on the table and then saluted my two superiors. Only the LT took it seriously enough; the Gunny just nodded, too wrapped up in a briefing statement. Something was apparently going on.

I told you about the LT before, I think. He was our recent platoon leader, replacing LT Daniels, who replaced LT Lowe. The first two LT's were well-respected, especially LT Daniels; there was not a thing we would not do for that man. Unfortunately, he was killed during a battle between a Scorpion armored unit's battle against Wraiths that had ended up in our lines. LT Lowe had been killed during a training exercise when his parachute had failed to open. With both gone, LT Fisher became our platoon leader.

He was a tall man, built well enough, with a shaved head and brown eyes that were dull and expressionless and a flat nose. He had been a lawyer in the real world, and a good one at that, but his experience as a platoon leader was limited and for all intents and purposes non-existent. It was not that he was a bad man; he was just not a good leader. He made poor decisions, he made hasty judgments, and he just could not command our respect, something Gunny Hawkins had acquired long ago from us.

And when I said before that he was new, he was new in the sense of how long he has spent with the company. At this point he had been with us for several months and on a planet and a half before we came back to Earth. At this point, he had become a familiar figure among us, but none of us could stand him, and none of us would be particularly sorry if he were no longer with us. We just could not stand him, and that was it.

"Corporal Gibson," was the first things out of his mouth before he even returned my salute, "I've got new orders for your fire team."

I frowned. Usually I did not receive individual orders, at least, not my fire team. If the squad got new orders, they went to Sergeant Dixon, our squad leader. My team was given orders from him outside of combat; in combat, we took whatever order was given to us from whomever they came from.

It must be a combat situation; that was the only thing I could think of. They were sending us as a scout, as a reserve unit, or even as a "shock" troop, to be dropped in behind enemy lines and do some damage. I had never been on good terms with the LT, but nothing in my experiences could have given us such a cruel fate.

Well, I was right. In a sense.

We were to act as the newly-formed "Recon Squad." Our job would be to commandeer one of the Warthogs and drive along the lines, patrolling the borders, watching out for Covenant activity. We would be given a radio and an extra pair of binoculars for the job, and our orders were to report back with any intelligence and if possible, neutralize any resistance we encountered.

A recon squad is a single squad, not entirely bound to a particular platoon or company, that drives ahead of the unit and engages first. It is a particularly risky job, and not one that I would willingly volunteer for.

He said we only had to be on this detail for five days. We did not know it then, but by the end of it, we were to be on it for four weeks. Those four weeks would be the longest four weeks of our lives.

I of course had my doubts. Five soldiers and one Warthog were not going to be much against any Covenant forces on our own. We were all experienced, however, which was probably why we had been chosen. We did not like it, though, and I wanted to complain to LT Fisher, but knew it would be fruitless. Fisher was stubborn and bull-headed, and he always had to have things go his way. He was a four-year-old boy trapped in a thirty-nine-year-old man's body, we all liked to say.

Instead of arguing, I just agreed to it. It would be better for all of us that way.

He told me that we had an hour to brief, to plan out our route, and to get all the equipment we believed would be necessary for the mission, and then he bade me off. Gunny Hawkins just gave me a hard look that I returned- both of us on the same thought-wavelength, just proving how long we had been together- and he nodded me out just like he had nodded me in.

All the way back to my team's position, my thoughts were only on the mission before us. Always when given a mission was my mind dedicated to our plan. I had always been like that, from our first mission to the current one. My team was the only team in the company that was still virtually intact from when we had first jumped into combat, despite some cuts and bruises and occasional needler fire. I wanted it to stay that way.

Edwards, McAllen and Yacoby were playing rummy on their helmets while Roscoe was cleaning his sniper rifle with a oil-covered cloth. I knelt next to them, resting my MA5-C on its stock. They took one look at me and stopped what they were doing, knowing I had news for them that they would not like.

"Heads up, guys," I told them. "We're going on recon."

I told them about the news, how we were acting as the new recon squad. Needless to say, they were vocally against the idea. McAllen was the most against it.

"You hear what happened to those guys in Delta Company? The ones they sent on recon?" he asked. "They found them three weeks later, their Warthog bombed to shit, the bodies charred and burned almost beyond recognition. You want us to end up like that?"

"Hey, I'm not the one who organized this bullshit. Take it up with the LT if you've got issues."

"Why us?" Yacoby wanted to know. "There's eight other fire teams in this company, get one of them to do it. Haven't we earned a break? We're wiped."

"I know," I assured her. "Trust me, I hate this too. But we've got orders, and so we're going to follow them."

And then Roscoe, ever the calm voice of reason needed for a team, said "What's the point of bitching about it? Bitching and moaning never solved anything. Let's just suck it up and do our job."

Edwards nodded to that. As much has he hated the idea too, he knew that he had to do his job, no matter what. He kept his own counsel, but did his job to the best of his abilities.

With it three on two, Yacoby and McAllen just grumbled. But they would go through with it. We all would. We had been through too much as a team, and in the end we all trusted each others' judgment. We were professionals; we had a better chance of surviving it than a group of new guys.

"Alright, fine." McAllen shook his head. "Swear to God, this had better not get me killed."

"You?" I said, rubbing his head and messing up his hair, which for once was not covered up with his cap. "You're too damn stubborn to die. They can't even hit your big ass when you're running away."

"Asshole." He lunged at me, knocking me over, and we playfully rolled around on the ground, throwing punches and laughing as we did, like kids on the playground instead of grown men.

That was just how we all were.

Yacoby stood up, throwing her hair backwards and out of her face as she placed her helmet back on her head.

"So where's our stuff at?" she asked.

An hour later, we were at our Warthog, packing up everything we would ever need for the assignment ahead. Although we had been told it would only be a five-day experience, we packed as though it would be five months. Ammunition, rations, medical supplies, and other odds and ends were stored in the compartments in the back of the 'Hog like we were about to go to Christmas dinner with our families.

I was disappointed that we were getting a M-831 Warthog instead of one with a turret, either a MG or a GAUSS cannon. The M-831 was an all-terrain vehicle with two benches in the back to seat three or four extra soldiers, with bars overhead to hold onto. While we could virtually turn this into a tiny, portable house, this was the weakest of the Warthog variations, as it had no mounted weapons to defend itself with. This was our biggest problem with the mission, but we bit our tongue.

The unique thing about our team was that we each had a different weapon, whereas most were armed with MA5-C's or Battle Rifles or the occasional shotgun. I had my Assault Rifle, Edwards had his Battle Rifle, Yacoby had her shotgun, McAllen had his M-7, and Roscoe had his sniper rifle. As such, we were loaded with five crates of ammo per weapon, never mind what we were carrying in ourselves. We were also given two SPNKr rocket launchers with eight rockets, and were warned to use them only if they had no other option. As far as pistol ammunition was concerned, we carried it in on our own.

Our radio was the standard radio for our unit. It was already synced in with the unit's radio frequency. Of course, Hatcher was always having radio problems on the frequency, so God only knew how well this would work. Nevertheless, we were glad to have a link to the outside world...even if it was not certain to work.

Doc Hutchinson had hooked us up with a simple medical kit filled with bandages, plasma, morphine, sulfa powder, bio-foam, and even some extra blood bags in case a transfusion was needed, all in crates marked with the Red Cross symbol. None of us had much medical experience, but hopefully we would never have to use the stuff. They were for just-in-case; something to hold over any wounds we received until we got back to a real medic.

We were given a couple containers of M-9 HE-DP grenades, which we stowed carefully; five S90 gas masks, which were to be used just in case of a gas emergency; and a "spoofer", which is an encryption keypad used to force open doors and override other equipments using some sort of electrical current. Food and water were stored in as well, though we knew we would have to scrounge for food from deserted cities if we were really going to survive. And of course, we all wore our CH252 battle helmets, our M52B body armor, and our VZG7 armored boots.

Finally, Humley and Chad Bennington, the platoon's assistant machine-gunner, allowed us to borrow their machine-gun for the duration. It was a huge risk, and would probably cripple morale for the platoon, but Humley said it would be okay as long as we brought it back in one piece. That gun could fire two hundred rounds and could penetrate Banshee armor, but against Wraiths it could not hope to do much. But it was still something to have around.

Finally, we were ready. The whole platoon was gathered around to see us off, minus the LT- which was no real loss for us. Gunny Hawkins came forward and placed his hand on my shoulder. At first, I thought he was going to give me some elaborate speech on how he was proud, or hell, even that he would miss me, and for a minute it looked like he was going to do just that. Instead, all he said was "Be careful."

That was the Gunny, though. He did not waste words. He did not try to mince things. He just said what was on his mind. That was just one of the things we admired about the man.

We piled into the vehicle, with me behind the wheel, McAllen riding shotgun, the other three in the back with Roscoe the closest towards the rear, his foot hanging out the back hatch, his sniper rifle pointed downwards. They were jammed in like sardines, what with all the other equipment tied down with them, but otherwise they would be comfortable. Gunny waved to us.

"Godspeed," he said. And we were off.

As we began our trip, I said a Hail Mary for ourselves and for the company itself. I was never a particularly religious man growing up, but after all our time on the worlds, the phrase "there are no atheists in foxholes" kind of came true for me. That did not mean I went to every mass that was held. But it did mean that I would think up a prayer when under Covenant artillery fire. But then again, so did the rest of us, I believe, although I never asked most of them.

And so this was our job for the next four weeks. During this time, we began to witness first hand the shift in power within the Covenant that would eventually lead to its downfall. We would encounter threats both new and old, and by the time we reunited with out unit, we would be ready for the final battle. From here on in, everything changed for us.

And we would meet every challenge as it came, head on.

* * *

Yeah, this chapter is pretty short. I just wanted to get this out. The next few chapters are just going to be their mission and the things they see and fight against.

But stay tuned. Bigger and better stuff is on the way.

Favorite, review, read, whatever. Hope you enjoyed it.


	4. Zanzibar Island

And here's Chapter Four

Enjoy!

* * *

The assignment. The mission. The journey through the cities, scouting for the enemy.

With me at the wheel, McAllen riding shotgun and our three other teammates in the back, we drove at a regular forty-five, fifty miles per hour. The ammo crates jumped up and down as we passed over the bumps, and more than once I saw Roscoe's face turn green as we hit a particularly nasty pothole.

We named our Warthog "Vera". It had been a topic of discussion between Edwards and McAllen; as this vehicle was going to be our life insurance for the mission, we felt it necessary to treat it as though it were a living, breathing member of the team. Yacoby came up with the name "Vera"; she said it was named after Augusto Vera, an old Italian philosopher of the 19th century who practiced Hegelianism, or the belief that all reality is capable of being expressed in rational categories. As this was a frequent belief of ours in a time where reality was taking a turn for the surreal, we all agreed it was the perfect name. Thus, Vera became the sixth member of our team.

We had succeeded in screwing the turret onto the top of Vera's bars, placing it on a pedestal we had scrounged up so that we could turn it 360 degrees. Of course, us being able to move freely 360 degrees was another story. But we would adjust the best we could, and the fact that the gun could move freely full-circle meant an easier time in downing Ghosts if they ever came at us.

McAllen opened up a can of tuna and started eating.

"So where to first?" he asked me.

"Tanzania Republic has reported Elite Armored Guards attacking civilians. We'll swing by Wind Power Station 7 and see if maybe this is where they're coming from."

"Zanzibar Island? How the hell are we gonna get Vera over there if there isn't a bridge?"

"Well, I figured we could set up an OP and monitor what goes on, while we find some sort of boat to get us across. The OP will keep their eyes peeled while we move."

"Binoculars aren't going to pick up active camo at a far range, even with thermals."

"I know. We'll just do the best we can."

"I can pick off a few if I see them," called Roscoe from the back seat.

"Make sure they don't see you, or they'll send those Banshees right down on top of us."

"Copy that. No worries."

Zanzibar Island used to be a beautiful paradise, a home away from home, but in the last twenty years it had really gone to ground due to aerial bombardments and evacuation. Wind Power Station 7 was said to be a former Spartan training ground, and from what we heard a damn good one, but it was shut down when the project was discontinued. Sometimes someone gets sent in for maps or something, but for the most part, it's shut up tight.

We parked Vera on a cliff near the base of Mount Kilimanjaro. From there, Roscoe laid out his camouflage covering to conceal him and the 'Hog while we looked for alternate transportation across to the island. He would be our eyes from the mainland while we did our recon.

Edwards found a small raft to take us across. It was old and rickety and made of wood, just like the ones used in those century-old stories, but with any luck it would work. Yacoby then found a rope line we could pull ourselves across with. It was daring, and we were sure we would have every Covenant artillery piece zoomed in on us, but we had to get across, so we went with it.

We dragged ourselves across the ocean to the island with our weapons, two grenades a piece, and some Satchel charges to blow up anything of importance, be it a base or a auto-turret. McAllen was the heaviest of our group, and as such, was the strongest. He did the majority of the pulling, though me and Edwards helped some.

We kept our ears and eyes open for plasma shells. In the middle of the day, in bright daylight, both were hard to do. Plasma can be just as bright as the sun, and when you're looking up to see if a bolt of seismic energy is coming right at you, you might as well be trying to find one yellow dot on a wall painted yellow. The only difference from the sun and the plasma is that plasma is blue, but against a blue sky that difference might not have even needed to exist. As for sound, it only makes two: when it's being fired, and when it hits something. And those were two sounds we could do without hearing.

But we made it across without a problem. And judging from the lack of sniper fire, no one knew we were where we were.

The base past the beach was defended with a rock wall that had been carved and sculpted to house any snipers and sentries that happened to be on the look-out for unexpected visitors. There were two ways past that- through the large opening that advertised the aforementioned visitors, and then sneaking up the stairs to the left end of the base. Past the rock wall was a small sentry outpost and a massive windmill

I took a mirror out of my pocket and flashed it against the sunlight to signal to Roscoe that we were across. His response was a flash back to us a moment later, telling us that we were good to go. I turned to my team and gave them their assignments; Edwards and McAllen were going to break left along the wall and take out any sentries and snipers that they most likely had set up, while Yacoby and I would sneak into the fort and plant charges on the Wraiths and Banshees stationed. Once done, we would fall back to the boat and detonate the charges on the way back.

McAllen had stolen (or "borrowed", as he preferred to call it) a silencer for his M-7 off of one of the soldiers back at the camp. Although he was a big, loud, boisterous man, in combat he liked to have the feeling of being a ghost to the Covenant. And since we were now a scout unit, he had an ample opportunity to see how much of a ghost he could be. He screwed it on to the tip of his sub-machine gun, winked at us, and then took off, Edwards right behind him.

Later, when we got back to the mainland, Edwards filled me in on how their half of the mission went. For that reason, I've included his account in with mine, synchronized so that it fits in easily.

After we split up, I took Yacoby through the passageway to the base. We moved through the first arch and took cover behind some debris. I peeked out and saw two Jackals on patrol, moving back towards the others. I looked back at her and motioned for her to stand still for a moment, let them pass.

On the wall, the other two had run into their own problems. They had discovered two Grunts just standing guard, lost in idle chit-chat. They, unlike our Jackals, were not going anywhere anytime soon.

Silencer on his weapon, McAllen peered out from the corner, took quick aim, and popped one of the Grunts right in its slimy little head. It did not even make a noise as it slumped backwards, its corpse resting on its oxide tank. The second Grunt yelped and turned to see where the shooting had come from; a second burst of fire to the gut took out that threat in a hurry.

Edwards jumped out, moved ten feet ahead and crouched behind the crates near the fallen bodies, and peaked his head out. There was no one that he could see; the Grunts had alerted no one. He indicated for McAllen to move up and join him.

Where we were, the Jackals had moved on and we ventured through the cracked portion of the wall into the base. We were met with a hallway, one side going up to where we knew the turrets were, the other leading deeper into the compound. I sent Yacoby up to take out the turrets while I scouted ahead to find the armor. I had no worries; she could move like a cat when she wanted to.

I quietly snuck up behind an Elite at the end of the corridor, my silenced pistol pointed right at the back of its cranium. Despite being silenced, my pistol could pack quite a punch, even at a long range. From where I was, I'd have enough power to maybe knock it out or at least give it one hell of a headache. The only way to kill an Elite with it, though, was to place it right to its head when I pull the trigger.

Quick as a flash, I put my muzzle up against the back of its head and shot twice. I could feel both bullets pass right through its skull and I felt it jerk against my gun, and then fall forward like a tree that had just been cut down. Along the way, he took half a container full of armor and weapons down with him, resulting in a very loud _bang!_ that could easily be heard from down the hall.

I threw myself behind a barrel, cursing my existence as I heard the footsteps of approaching Elites. From the footsteps, I could count two, possibly three. As they got closer, I could distinctly hear three. Then one either stopped to stand guard or went off elsewhere, because one pair of footsteps stopped and the other two rounded the corner, plasma rifles in one hand and energy swords in the other.

My heart sank. An Elite could sniff a human out pretty well when they had to, and I could see these two's nostrils already flaring, trying to get a hint of a scent. My MA5C would dent the armor, maybe even kill one of them, but killing two, possibly three of them? By myself? Not good odds.

Slowly I reached forward and, without too much hassle or noise to make one of them notice me, I grabbed a plasma grenade off of the Elite I had taken out. If all else failed, I could always try to go with the "fast and messy" approach and take them with me. Never liked the idea of it, but desperate times, right?

One of the Elites' head jerked up, finally acquiring my scent. I readied my grenade as it got closer, sword looking particularly dangerous-

And that was when Yacoby leapt down from the higher level and landed right on top of the Elite, knife out in her right hand. She jammed it into the right side of its neck and tore it halfway across its throat, severing whatever vein Elites had. The alien made a choking noise as it tried to swing at the woman, sword swiping through the air as it twisted and slammed into the wall.

The second Elite let out its yelp and raised its plasma rifle when I jumped out from cover and shot it twice with my pistol. The first bullet pierced the left side of its neck, and the second one tore off one of its mandibles. It stood there, dumbfounded by pain, while I fired a third one that went right into its mouth and tore through the back of its head. It fell to the ground at the same time as the one Yacoby was holding onto did, and both Elites' armor made that loud clanging noise as they hit the floor.

The noise attracted the third Elite, because we heard it start moving our way. Yacoby grabbed the energy sword and, the minute it crossed around the corner, she activated that thing to slide right through its chest. She held it there long enough for it to breathe its last rancid breath and then dropped it onto the ground with its buddies.

Meanwhile, Edwards and McAllen had started to get the hint of something going wrong. There were more Grunts moving in packs, and Jackals were starting to take up positions on the balcony with carbines; not Beam Rifles, otherwise, they would have really begun panicking. But either way, the tension was rising. Our escapade with the four Elites had apparently not gone unnoticed by the Covenant of this fortress. We needed to hurry this up.

Taking careful aim, McAllen fired two suppressed bursts from his M-7 and nailed two Jackals right in their vulture-like heads. That was two less snipers to worry about. Edwards got behind another Elite and snapped its neck real quick. His pistol, also silenced, came out to deal with two Grunts that the Elite had been giving orders to and shot them both in the head, once each.

By this point, Yacoby and I had found where the Wraiths were. These things were dragged off by Phantoms to open fire on civilian towns nearby, and once they were done, the Phantoms would drag them back. These things had already done a number on our morale; I figured it was time we pay them back a little bit.

I got out my satchel charges while Yacoby began planting hers on one of the tanks. If we were in combat, we would usually just drop a grenade down the hatch, but with them being stationary, charges were the best bet. Plus, there was no point in wasting a grenade on a stationary tank. Yacoby planted two charges on two tanks, while I got another two and then placed a charge on the gas tank located against the inner wall. All of the charges would blow the place sky-high as soon as we hit the trigger.

We suddenly heard shooting going on outside. One of the others must have caused enough noise. It was time to get the hell out.

We were right. One of the snipers had spotted Edwards and had raised the alarm, opening fire. He ducked down after the first bolt went over his head, and McAllen fired at them as the snipers suddenly began opening up.

Figuring nothing mattered at this point, Edwards finally opened fire with his Battle Rifle, shooting off three-round bursts and making sure each burst hit them squarely in their ugly vulture-like heads. McAllen focused his fire on the Grunts that were opening fire with plasma pistols and needlers. He pegged off two just as Elites started showing up, shooting plasma rifles and throwing plasma grenades.

Yacoby and I, meanwhile, ran outside at the rear of the base to see two Elites get a five-man Grunt squad together. They barely stood a chance. Yacoby's shotgun took out one of the Elites with a blast to the head and upper chest while I laid sporadic fire and took out the Grunts with my entire clip. The second Elite raised its plasma rifle to us, but with Yacoby's shotgun and my pistol combined we were able to take it down with no problem.

At the same time, Edwards threw his own grenade, which landed right next to a couple of power cores. The explosion that followed was a massive one, as the grenade lit off the cores and set them off with a boom. One Elite was engulfed with the flame and there was nothing left of it when the explosion was over. Two Grunts too a hit to their oxide tanks and they ran around for a few seconds before they too blew up and were sent flying. The Jackals were beginning their retreat as the dust settled down, and now the Elites were beginning to mass.

It was at this point that Yacoby and I finally linked back up with our two comrades and decided to get the hell out of there. We had done our job and there was no point in waiting around to get killed. Plus, as always happened whenever they found rats in their base, I'm sure the Covenant would sick their Hunters on us before long. It was time to clear out.

So we took off, Yacoby going first with McAllen covering her, then me while Edwards covered me. When we were past the wall, I turned and covered my two men while they turned and hauled ass out of there, while needles and plasma bolts passed over their heads. Yacoby threw a grenade over their heads and I fired a few quick bursts as they ran past us. The grenade exploded, but I never knew if it had actually hit anything.

We got to the raft just as an Elite with dual Energy Swords jumped off the cliff side towards us. It jumped on McAllen, who saw it at the last moment and rolled out of the way. He raised his M-7 to fire as it raised its sword to stab him-

And then a bullet from Roscoe's sniper rifle blew its brains right out of the back of its head. It fell to the ground, the swords deactivating as its hands went slack.

I grabbed McAllen and threw him onto the raft while Edwards covered us. Then he and Yacoby pushed the raft out onto the ocean and jumped in. McAllen recovered and immediately began pulling the rope while Edwards and I, having the two free automatic weapons handy, opened fire on the surviving Covenant that were approaching the shoreline and firing on us.

Now, here was where our hastily-made plan really put us at a disadvantage. Now that the enemy knew where we were, they were more than able to fire those plasma turrets right down on us. Every blast of energy that hit the water sent off a geyser around us while we dealt also with the plasma bolts and needle shards that flew over our heads like angry wasps. As we were a quarter of the way across a huge plasma bolt landed ten feet away from us and almost flipped us over. I knew immediately that it was from a Hunter's plasma cannon; if it got a dead hit, we were dead men.

Thank God for Jerry Roscoe. He knew how bad it was and did everything he could to make it better. He sniped the Elites on the shoreline, not wasting his time on the Grunts, knowing that if he took out the leaders the Grunts would just run scared. He shot at where ever the Hunters were, and we knew that the bullets would not kill them but they would at least cripple them for a time. His best shot came when he hit a power core that completely ignited one of the plasma turrets, and we saw the giant round-shaped turret roll off the ledge and fall straight into the sea, its driver going right in with it.

When we were about halfway across, I finally detonated the charges. The explosion that followed was the biggest explosion of the day. It was as if the entire roof of the station had been blown off as the tanks and the gas tank ignited in a Fourth of July spectacle that even on a raft under enemy fire we could appreciate. The explosions were so fierce that every surviving Covenant soldier stopped firing at us and just stared in horror as we destroyed their entire armored division. The explosions continued on for another ten minutes, by which time we were well across and had disembarked and were loading back into our Warthog.

As we started Vera up and Roscoe hopped in with his gear, I couldn't help but wonder how much of the place we had destroyed. If there was something important that our command would need later, it would not be good if it had gone sky-high. Maybe even something about the Spartan project. Suddenly, I felt guilty. We probably should have explored more, made sure we got all the important documents out of there before we had sent it to Kingdom Come.

No point crying over spilled milk, I supposed. We just had to assume anything of importance had been taken out before the Covenant had shown up. Our job was to scout the enemy and destroy them; there was nothing in the job description about gathering documents and reporting them to intelligence. If it was, it was in the fine print and they had not read it to us. That was their fault. We were on reconnaissance of the enemy, and that to me did not involve paperwork.

As we drove off, our minds turned to our dinner, which we pulled out of cans in the back of our Warthog, and wondering where the road was going to take us next.

* * *

Wow, I did not expect this chapter to take so long. Sorry about that. I've been really busy.

Well, that's that, I suppose. So...yeah, I'll see you all next time.


End file.
